Friends of the Hawk
by SCJen
Summary: AU. WIP. Non-slash. Based on The Migration AU. The Couslands are dead and Arl Rendon Howe controls Highever. There are survivors from Castle Cousland, however, and it's up to them to reclaim the Terynir in the Cousland name. Part 2: Leaving
1. By A Sliver

_**A/N:** This is a companion story to go along with my other AU fanfic called The Migration. It was originally going to be part of the Migration story, but then I realized that it was cluttering up the situation with the main characters for both plots and could be placed separate from it. I was always dissatisfied with the way Fergus and the situation in Highever was treated in the game. That is to say, it was almost non-existent. Laid up with the Chasind for almost 2 years? Sorry, that doesn't fly with me. So I'm taking my out frustrations with it in this story. Very much a work in progress, very much AU with who I have survive. Comments very welcome. Good, bad, questions?_

_P.S. This story is also the reason why my next chapter to The Migration has taken so long to get out. I know, excuses, excuses.  
_

_(4/1/2010) Found out through some sources that Ser Gilmore is fully known as Ser Roland "Rory" Gilmore. Just changed the first section to reflect that._

_(4/16/2010) Last section changed. I was under the assumption that Byron Howe was Rendon's father. I was mistaken. Byron was his Uncle._

_(5/13/2010) Small spelling corrections, corrected one father/uncle change, and changed one word for proper terminology (it's "Teyrnir" not "Teyrnship").  
_

**Friends of the Hawk**

Part 1: By a Sliver

Ser Roland Gilmore's world was a haze of pain and sound. It felt like someone was trying to choke him with the collar of his own armor. His ears were ringing and when he tried to open his eyes he couldn't focus. Roland coughed, groaned, then gasped as his back dropped to the ground. Then something rough and wet started to streak across his face over and over. Through the ringing he heard this piteous whine and his blurred vision was blocked by something large and brown.

Trying to focus on what was in front of him, he roughly croaked out the only thing it could possibly be.

"Angus . . .?"

The whining got louder and the warhound licked his face even more. Roland coughed and laughed at the same time as he was certain that he shouldn't be alive. Memories of what happened in the hall once Arl Howe's men broke through was nothing but a blur of violence. By the Maker's blessing Lord Aedan's Mabari Warhound made it there and was trying to help him out.

Things were beginning to get clearer and Ser Gilmore reached up to push Angus's muzzle away to be able to try and sit up. He inhaled sharply through his teeth when he put pressure on his hand and almost fell right back down onto his back. Clutching it to his chest he could feel that his right hand around his last two knuckles were enflamed and a tentative touch told him his fingers were swollen in the glove. His right eye was refusing to open, and the fact his hand felt numb was worrying, but he had no time to ponder it.

Glancing around with one good eye he saw that Angus must have drug him out to the farthest corridor from the great hall. Giving silent thanks that Mabari were as big and strong as they were, he gave second silent thanks that Angus liked him enough to do this. The corridor was peppered with bodies along the way and the castle was burning. If the Teyrn, Teyrna, or Lord Aedan hadn't made it out by now then they were very likely dead. He knew he had to get out and not let Angus's efforts go to waste.

Angus backed up a little as Roland struggled a bit to get to his feet. He wobbled some as his lightly blurred vision and spinning head took its effect on him. Pushing himself, he shook his head to try and clear it, and then started walking. The warhound whined again and lingered at his side. Roland saw that the end of the corridor was blocked by burning debris.

"How do we get out of here?" he uttered, then coughed as smoke wafted everywhere.

Angus gave an excited bark and trotted a little bit down the hall behind Roland. Barking again, the Warhound was obviously trying to get him to follow. Roland went along, following Angus as fast as he was able.

They turned a corner and the warhound bounded up the steps leading to the battlements. It didn't make sense to him to head up into a burning structure, but he trusted that Angus knew of some way out. Roland got up the steps, able to focus a little better.

From the battlements he could see that a whole outer wall of the castle had collapsed. The fire and debris from it made it impossible to pass on the ground. Angus got to the very edge where the wall collapsed. He looked back, barking again at Roland. For a second he thought that perhaps the dog wasn't as bright as he assumed and had lead him to a dead end for no reason. However, when Roland got close Angus turned and leapt down off the wall. He rushed over to look, his eye wide, half expecting to see a dead dog sprawled on burning rubble below. It wasn't the case.

Angus, now outside the castle walls on the ground below, looked up at him. The debris has all fallen at one angle, leaving something of a clear space on the grass outside the wall. It was a bit of a drop, at least 25 feet or more. The warhound apparently didn't have any difficulty making the drop down. Barking up at him again, Angus bounded around in a circle.

Roland took a last glance around, a bit uncertain. Most of the castle was aflame and there were no ways out that wouldn't lead right back to more of Howe's men and certain death. Just then an audible "whoosh" erupted from somewhere in the castle. The wall under him shook and he heard horrid and panicked screams. It was enough to give Ser Gilmore the grit he needed. Giving himself to the count of three, he leapt down towards the grass, feet first.

Feeling his ankle roll on him as he landed, he tumbled hard to the ground. Roland gave a strangled cry as he accidentally lay on his right hand. He curled a bit around himself as the pain in the worst of his injuries fully hit him. Hearing Angus's whine and feeling him lick the side of his face helped him get passed the pain. Gritting his teeth he planted his good hand on the ground and forcefully pushed himself up.

Putting pressure on his ankle caused pain to coarse up his leg and he limped heavily. He knew that he had to at least get to the tree line if he was to have any chance of escape. Howe's men would eventually get to searching the surrounding forest for survivors, so Roland had to get away and get away now.

Angus got his head under Roland's good hand. Without asking he leaned on the dog like a cane, taking pressure off his ankle and making it easier to walk. The warhound bore up with it, walking slowly to match his pace. Roland glanced back just as they got to the tree line. He saw no one pursuing and didn't see a single one of Arl Howe's men. They were likely on the other side of the castle, slaying any unfortunate soul who tried to come out the main gates.

That was well and fine. For every death they had wrought and would cause, Ser Gilmore was going to pay them back tenfold. For this betrayal he would skewer Arl Howe himself. First, however, he had to live. That decided, he limped on deeper into the wood with Lord Aedan's warhound by his side.

* * *

Dairren clutched to the burlap sack in his arms, his back flat against the tree. His eyes were wide open and he shook lightly where he stood.

He hadn't intended to come back from Highever so late. The new set of sturdy boots the Teyrn had sent him out to get was easy enough to retrieve. The rather cute, well formed, and very willing merchant lass who had them, however, turned out to be too much of an opportunity to pass up. True, he had aims for the elven Grey Warden recruit, Kallian, but as Aedan would have told him always go for the apple in the cart rather than the apple in the tree. You get a sure bite from the cart, but may just break your neck trying to reach for the one in the tree.

So he took from the cart and stayed longer than he thought he would. Not wanting to risk not being there if Arl Howe's men showed up at the castle in the morning he had to sneak out of the leather merchant's humble little home, feeling a little guilty for leaving while she slumbered. It wouldn't have been the greatest impression if one of the first things he did as the Teyrn's squire was to show up late, looking like the cat drug him in. Risking the short travel alone at night he figured there wouldn't be any trouble along the way and that he could convince the gate guards to let him back in with a conspiratorial wink and nudge.

But it seemed his worries were for naught.

There was a faint whiff of smoke in the air first. Then there was the clank and rattle of armored men that came down the road, hidden behind the bend of trees. Thinking at first to maybe wait and see who it was he changed his mind and decided to hide. If they were bandits he would certainly have been outnumbered. All he had with him was his father's blade and no armor. He felt a bit ashamed and a little cowardly, but he was no Cousland. He wasn't even much of a soldier. Dairren knew how to use a blade, but he really wasn't that good at it.

The decision turned out to be the right one, much to his horror. The contingency of men stopped on the road, one of them barking an order for four of them to remain there. Then he heard the man's words loud and clear and Dairren's world came falling apart.

"Any strangers you see, tell them the castle has burned and the Couslands are dead. Any survivors from the castle, slay on the spot. Arl Howe will reward five silver for every head you bring him. Five sovereign for a Cousland!"

Dairren's mind was whirring in a panic. Part of him wanted to scream and run, but another part knew that would be the death of him. The four men left behind on the road were not far from him and they most certainly would have seen him. Heart pounding and knees shaking he was sure that they would hear him any second.

He knew he had to leave his hiding spot eventually, especially if they started to search the forests. Perhaps if he had moved slow enough, stealthy enough, and kept the trees between he and they then maybe --

A ruckus of noise erupted from the other side of the road, causing Dairren's heart to crawl up into his throat. Arl Howe's men began shouting. Taking a chance he peeked out from behind his tree. The four were facing away from him and were quickly trotting into the forest away from him. There were more shouts and screams, the sounds spurring his fear. Dairren ran.

Running into the darkness of the forest, unsure of which way he fled, he kept the sounds behind him and didn't look back. It wasn't until his lungs began to burn that he stopped. He leaned against a tree, gasping for air, one hand still clutched to the burlap sack. There were no sounds behind him and he guessed that they hadn't detected him.

His mind was still in a panic, feeling death at the back of his neck. Choking back a coughing sob, he felt utterly helpless. Mother was dead, the Teyrn was dead, and even if they weren't they soon would be. Arl Howe had betrayed them, betrayed them all. What was he to do?

Fleeing was the only option that came to mind, so he kept going. Tripping and stumbling through the wood like some startled creature, fearing every noise. He needed to get where it was safe, needed to get where he could tell someone what happened.

His father!

He was certain his father would know what to do. Dairren had to get to him to tell him and warn him, but he wasn't set for travel. There was coin in his pouch, his sword, his cloak, and the Teyrn's new boots. Everything else he had was back in the castle. No food. No water. No armor if he was to be attacked. Dairren didn't even know how to survive in the wood as he was never shown how. Learning under the Couslands as a squire was supposed to handle that.

Highever was where he had to go first. The risk had to be taken if he was to survive the trip. With his father in mind he did his best to try and find his way to town.

* * *

A field of fire burned before him. In it he could see a stone structure of some kind, but it also burned and crumbled as he watched.

Then from his left Oriana came. She held their son's hand and smiled at him. He felt so glad to see them, but when he tried to move towards them and speak, his body refused to move and his mouth would not utter the words. Oriana picked up Oren and stayed where she stood, nearing no closer. They were saying something to him and to one another, but his ears heard nothing but the crackle of the fire behind them. Oren waved his hand at him and he could read his lips.

_Goodbye, goodbye_, he was saying.

It was hard to understand. Why say goodbye when they had only just arrived. Then from his right two others appeared. It was his mother and father. Oriana smiled at them as they approached and gave his mother a peck on the cheek. His father ruffled Oren's hair.

They all turned their gazes upon him. Oriana's gaze was a familiar loving one. Oren continued to wave at him, still saying goodbye. His mother and father looked at him proudly. However, there was a tinge of sadness in all their eyes and he began to feel a sense of dread.

As one, they all turned and started walking right into the fire. He tried to shout out to them, tried to run after them to stop their course, but again he could neither move nor speak. Only able to watch in horror as the flames consumed them, his very soul screamed. Yet even as they walked in fire, their clothes, hair, and flesh turning black, they reacted not. Pain didn't touch them and they continued into the inferno as if it were an afternoon stroll.

The structure, he now recognized, was their castle. Stone shifted on its own like it was alive. Then all the stone and fire joined together to form some massive four legged creature. It looked to him like some bear. The thing roared, spitting fire from its maw. At its stone feet blood pooled and spread in every thickening layers. Screams of dying men and women came from the pools of dark red liquid.

The monstrosity then turned its fire-eyed gaze at him. Railing against the prison that was his own body, he knew he couldn't run, but kept trying to will it so. Somehow he knew that though his family hadn't felt pain, he would. Inside his heart pounded with both fear and rage.

It bore down on him in a hale of fire and stone, and then . . . Fergus Cousland woke up.

He had sat up in his cot with half a scream stuck in his throat. Cold sweat covered him and his blanket was tousled and tangled up in his legs. It took a full score of seconds for him to realize where he was.

They had made good headway on the roads despite the muddied grounds. Currently camped all along the side of the road, he and Ser Jace shared the large tent that would eventually be the one he and his father would share at the camp in Ostagar. Fergus wasn't so high brow to think that no one but a Cousland could use the tent so their Knight Captain shared the tent with him. Ser Jace slept soundly, Fergus's noise apparently not waking him.

Untangling his legs from the blankets, he swung them over the side. Slowly wiping a hand down his face, he tried to block out the dream from his mind and calm the heart thumping in his chest like a blacksmith's hammer. The lingering images were hard to strike out and the heat of the fire had felt so real he was certain that his skin should have been scorched in places.

Knowing he wasn't going back to sleep anytime soon he quietly got his boots on, draped the blanket over his bare shoulders, and walked out of the tent to get some air. The man on watch glanced up from his stoking of the campfire, then stood up fully when he saw it was Fergus.

"Something amiss, my lord?" The man asked.

Fergus paused at that, then shook his head, "No, everything's fine. Just getting a bit of air." He quickly added a small lie, "That and a bit of nature's calling."

He motioned in the direction of the freshly dug latrines.

"Ah," the soldier nodded in understanding and smiled. "I'll just carry on then."

With that he stooped back down to prod at the fire again, paying Fergus no further mind. He seemed to be in good spirits. As Fergus walked down the line of the other campfires and sleeping soldiers he thought to himself that all his men were in a generally positive mood. They were certainly nervous of the battles waiting for them when they reached their destination, but that nervousness was kept in check by slipping into the daily routine of travel. Breaking camp, making camp, fixing meals, doing assigned duties. It all helped the men get their minds focused and calm.

It was why Fergus knew that he had to shake this nightmare off. His father taught him long ago that to be a leader of men you had to appear calm and confident. Even when you harbored fears and doubts, you didn't let the men see it. "The Allowable Lie" his father called it. Allowable in that it keeps your men confident in battle and, thus, could mean the difference between life and death for them on the field.

The nightmare had him worried. Fergus knew that dreams could sometimes be prolific, but he knew they could be horribly false as well. Dreams would sometimes prey on a person when times were dire or stressful, and these were certainly stressful times. As the air and the walk calmed him further he switched his focus onto the real nightmares in front of him. The darkspawn.

They were evil made real. Creatures that brought nothing but death and destruction where ever they appeared. The darkspawn were an enemy worth eradicating and he hoped that he and his men would be a force the King could depend on for that very thing. He wasn't about to let a silly dream shake him when so many lives were riding on his shoulders.

That in mind he started to work his way back to the tent. It wouldn't do well for this many men to see their fearless leader looking tired only three days out from Highever. He would get some sleep and start the day anew.

* * *

"Burn it!" he shouted. "Burn it all to the ground! Leave no evidence!"

"But, Milord, we still have men in there!"

"I don't care! I want every single body in there to be nothing but ash and the metal turned to slag, do you hear me?" He grabbed the man by the front of his armor and snarled. "This will not be left unfinished or I swear I'll throw you in the fire myself."

Staring at him in wide eyed fear, he nodded shakily, "Y-yes, my lord!"

Pushing the man away, Rendon Howe sniffed in satisfaction as the man started hollering orders to get more wood and turn the already burning castle into a raging inferno.

This was it. This was finally it. The Cousland name would be history. No more would the Howe family be second to what amounted to a bunch of upstarts. Highever rightfully belonged to them and he was going to take it back. After the Orlesians were defeated it should have been he and his family that took the Teyrnir, but Maric thrust Bryce Cousland's father, an old old man, into that position instead. As if his own uncle hadn't lost his life secretly aiding the Rebel Prince. As if his family had sacrificed nothing towards the cause.

Rendon's lip curled in remembrance. After Uncle Byron had passed away his family was shaken. The man was like a second father to Rendon, guiding him after the Grey Wardens recruited his father and took him away from the family forever. They didn't want to loose more in a war that could mean the end of all of them. Then Bryce, damn the man, invoked his uncle's name to convince them all otherwise. Saying that it would be dishonoring all Arl Byron Howe had done and would dishonor his wishes.

Damn the man! Damn them all! None of them realized how long the Howe's had to suffer under Orlesian occupation. None of them realized the charade they had to keep up with to make it appear they were on Orlais side. They survived and succeeded because of it, they suffered because of it. In the end, their reward was to have to bow to a man who dared to say he knew what his uncle's thoughts were. One who was only put there because of "hereditary right". A _false_ hereditary right.

They would suffer no more. _He_ would suffer no more. Rendon knew it would come to this when he heard of Bryce's trips to Orlais. Orlais! Sailing there to pay visit to the Empress. Not to barter any merchant deals or find suppliers of goods, but to pay his respects to the leader of their previous oppressors. The gall! Like the foppish wench deserved any more from Ferelden than spitting on the ground at the mention of her name. His uncle would have been disgusted.

No more. This was it.

He would see to it that word of the Couslands dying in a fire would stretch far and wide. Only Fergus Cousland would stand in his way and one man, shocked and grieving, would make for an easy target. The sailing trade his family had built over the years gave him contacts as far away as Tevinter. It would be the Antivan Crows that could help him best in dealing with Bryce's eldest. Once that would be done then the Teyrnir would be his and his family would be elevated to the status they truly deserved.

There was only one selfish thing that Rendon had wished for and that was to see the look on Bryce Cousland's face when he realized he'd been had by his betters. To see that look of fear and despair would have made this night complete. He was going to have to settle for turning Cousland Castle into a pile of ash for his men to piss on later.

Rendon would have to move fast if he was to gather support of the Banns and get word to the King about this "tragedy". He'd have to go to Denerim himself to speak to King Cailan once the silly darkspawn nonsense was done. Provided Maric's son survived the situation.

Provided.

Suddenly, Rendon's mind was filled with a much greater possibility. Much greater. An assassinated King with no heirs left the door wide open. What amounted to a commoner Queen with a commoner Teyrn father would hold little right to retaining the throne. The Landsmeet would _have_ to turn to him for claim! He could see to it that they agreed . . . he'd _force_ them to agree. He had ways. He could do it!

Rendon Howe gazed at the fire and destruction before him and could only see the brightness of his own future.


	2. Finding Direction

_**A/N: **Just so you know, there are no slash pairings in here, so please don't assume there will be. Not every tale that has males for their main characters automatically means they're getting paired. Fergus and Gilmore are listed because they are main characters, that's it. This is a tale of intrigue and adventure. If romance happens, it will be a happy byproduct of the central story and will not involve non-canon male/male pairings. I apologize to those only looking for nothing but romance or slash fic._

_Also, there will be a sizable cast of original characters in this so if you come across names you're not familiar with, don't worry. Oralyn, Socha, and Ser Jarva are figments from my cracked little noggin.  
_

Part 2: Finding Direction

The port town of Highever had houses that sprawled beyond its ancient stone walls. Dairren recalled vaguely that there was mention of having a second outer stone wall built to help protect the town's newer residents. Whether that happened now or not, he didn't care, but he was glad that it had not been seen to yet. Being able to get into town undetected was made easier with no walls or gates to have to pass.

The moment he got close to town he could hear various bells being rung. The one at the Chantry, bells at the docks, and the large one at the guard tower clanged away. It was not the sound of Morning's First Bell, despite the fact that the clouded sky was getting brighter. They clanged away in alarm, loud and constant in order to wake the townsfolk to dire news. Dairren didn't doubt it for a moment that by the time he got to the first houses, the news that the Couslands were dead would reach the townsfolk's ears.

It worked in his favor. As he got deeper in, people were out on the streets, knocking on doors of people who had yet to hear the news. One woman was openly sobbing, shaking her head in denial, an older man holding and comforting her. Another man with a gruff sounding voice loudly accused the man in front of him of lying. He heard the two clearly as he passed.

"I swear to you, ser! The castle has burned to the ground and no one survived. The Teyrn and Teyrna are dead! Can you not see the smoke from here yourself?"

"You expect me to believe a simple fire had done them in? Hogwash! The Couslands have survived far worse!"

"But, ser . . . "

Their words faded in the distance and in the noises of the quickly developing crowds. Clutching still to the burlap sack, he could feel his knuckles whiten. Thinking that maybe he should turn around and tell the gruff sounding man the truth, tell them all the truth, his pace slowed. It tugged at him hard. Stopping in the middle of the street he heard the sounds of crying and dismay, of denial and anguish. He could tell them all that it wasn't the fire, but Arl Howe's men, and turn those cries into ones of outrage.

Dairren thought this until a group of armed men wearing the heraldry of the Arl of Amaranthine came marching down the street. They were hollering at people to get back in their homes and to wait for news from the town criers. Fear gripped his gut. If they saw that he went to no particular doorway they would know him a stranger to the town. They would eventually figure who he was and know he was supposed to be dead.

Almost blindly he walked up to a doorway of a house, a woman inside just about to close the door. Slapping a hand on the door to stop her from closing it, she looked up in shock at him.

"Please," he pleaded in hushed tones. "Let me step inside a moment."

"W-what?" She stammered, her eyes starting to look at him a bit frightfully.

Dairren's glance shifted nervously up the street to the Amaranthine men, then to her again, "I just need in for a moment. I mean you no harm I . . . I just need to not be in the street when they pass. Please, milady."

She gazed up at him still looking a little frightened, then also glanced up the street. Perhaps it was the look of the men from Amaranthine or the look in Dairren's eyes that changed her mind. In either case she opened the door more and waved him in.

* * *

Angus whined as Roland got the short stick clenched in his teeth. If he was going to survive then he was going to need to fix his injuries, starting with his hand. The ankle was fine, just a minor sprain, and though it was still tender he could walk on it and even run on it if necessary. His eye he was going to have to see to last. It was a bloody, swollen mess, he knew, and he would have to tend to it at the sacrifice of the shirt he wore under the armor. None of that could be done, however, till he had two hands to work with.

The last two fingers were not broken, just dislocated. He'd had that happen to his thumb a time or two before so he knew what he had to do to fix it. It was going to hurt putting the bone joints back in place, but it had to be done or he'd suffer more permanent damage. Bracing his back against the tree, he got a grip around the base of both fingers. He counted to three and then pulled.

The stick in his teeth did its job of preventing him from hollering out too loud or biting down on his own tongue. Both fingers gave an audible pop and though it hurt like a demon he knew he managed to get both reset right. Breath hissed out through his teeth and he gave himself a moment for the pain to subside. Funny enough, the words of Ser Jarva, the master-at-arms he trained under as a squire, came at him then.

_There are two things that make a soldier what he is. Discipline and pain_, Roland could just see him now pacing back and forth in front of the young men sent to Castle Cousland to serve, glowering as he spoke. _Discipline to keep your head in battle and a tolerance for pain. Keeping your head is what I will teach you, so don't you worry about that. However, if you cannot stand pain . . . then you can march home right now to go sob at your mother's teat! Pain is what makes a soldier realize he is alive. Pain is what makes a man know he has yet to be sent to the Maker's side. Pain means life and if you live you can still fight. Remember that!_

He recalled how he and Aedan had rolled their eyes at one another after getting that speech. They had thought it just overly manly talk meant to frighten and impress their young and impressionable minds. Now, though, the words rung horribly true. He was in pain, he was alive, and he'd live on to fight another day. Others were not as fortunate.

Thinking of Ser Jarva and Aedan made him think of the rest of the Cousland family and everyone else at the castle that was lost. Osmen, who just the day before had to be disciplined for falling asleep while guarding the treasury, stood by him at the door with determination and pride. All the men with him in that hall who were willing to give their lives for the Teyrn and his family were gone. He was the only one left and he had to continue the fight for them.

A nudge at his elbow and a high keening whine broke him of his thoughts. After petting Angus's head reassuringly he took the stick out of his mouth and spat out a little bit of tree bark. Flexing his fingers experimentally he guessed he did it properly enough. It still hurt and he could barely bend them, but the muscles and tendons felt like they were in their proper places. The fingers were not broken as far as he could tell.

"Let's get more distance under our belts, Angus," he uttered to the Warhound as he pushed off the tree. "Give my hand some time before I see to my eye."

Angus gave a muted bark through his jowls and followed Roland's lead.

* * *

Socha sighed as he relieved himself on the tree. He'd been holding it for hours now, almost since they fled from the castle. Truthfully speaking he was mildly surprised he hadn't pissed down his own leg during any of it. Maybe it was because he was trying to look out for Oralyn and was more concerned for her well being than he was for his own. They were all worried for her as they also wanted to be able to look to her for guidance.

She was the smartest and wisest of all of them. It was known that she was being groomed to eventually take Nan's place. On the days that Nan had rest, the servants differed to her judgment.

Unfortunately, she was now lost. She was dazed and pale and Socha often had to keep dragging her along. They all managed to keep together through the darkened forests. Now huddled together in a small clearing, they rested for a bit. Socha knew that they would have to keep going, but where could they go to? He had hoped that Oralyn had an idea, but she wasn't very responsive. There had to be a way to pull Oralyn out of her stupor, but Socha really wasn't sure how. Hopefully, something would present itself to him or she might pull out of it on her own. Maybe he could do what Kallian Tabris had and slap Oralyn out of it.

The moment the thought came to his mind he tossed it out again. He didn't have it in him to do that to her. So he went back to trying to think of what to say.

As he pondered what words to use he started to retie his pant strings, then paused in a panic. Some sound in the forest caught his attention like a rustling of feet on the ground. Socha gulped the lump that formed in his throat, his eyes wide as he tried to look around in the dim gray light. Nothing could be seen at first, but then a figure lurched around a tree in the distance. It was big and armored, so Socha didn't spend any more seconds gawking at it. He scampered off at a run, holding his pants up with one hand.

_Did we tarry too long? Are Howe's men already here?_

He came tumbling back into the clearing, sputtering incoherently. Eventually, he managed to form the words.

"Someone . . . is out there," he said, breathlessly.

"What?"

"Who is it?"

"Should we run?"

The questions came out in rapid fire succession and Socha didn't have the answers for any of it.

* * *

Dairren was trying to calm the thundering in his chest with little success. The home of the woman he barged in on looked warm and cozy, but he felt a chill down his back as he heard the armored soldiers come to a stop just outside. Words were being said and he was certain he could hear the voice of the gruff sounding man.

Peeking out through a curtain, the woman who let him in looked outside through the window. Occasionally she glanced nervously back at Dairren, who was leaning with his back on the wall, still clutching to the burlap sack.

The voices outside became louder and heated until the woman gave a little gasp, "No, no, Ser Denny, calm your-." She gasped again when the voices became shouts.

It got Dairren to move. Nearing the window, he pushed aside some of the curtain to also peek out, the woman moving a little aside for him. What he saw made his blood go colder.

The men from Amaranthine had the man she called Ser Denny down on the ground and surrounded. They kicked, punched, and beat him mercilessly. Ser Denny, however, was not completely out of the fight. Giving a bit of a roar he lunged up and grabbed one of his assailants in a headlock, then proceeded to punch the soldier in the head repeatedly. The others grabbed at him, trying to overpower him. It took all of the men there to bring Ser Denny down to the ground again. A solid kick to his head finally made him slump to the ground, unmoving.

"Sweet Andraste," the woman whispered. "What in the world is going on?"

Dairren backed away from the window with slow halting steps, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He felt like he was about to faint. Stumbling on his way, he sat in the nearest chair he could find.

"Y . . . You didn't have anything to do with this . . . did you?" The quiver in the woman's voice made him look up.

Her clear, deep-green eyes were still fearful. She had obviously been awoken in mid slumber as her brown hair was loose and uncombed. A woolen shawl covered her shoulders over the long, thick shift she wore. It was then that he noted, with no small amount of guilt, that her belly bulged with child.

"No. No," he said quickly. "I've done nothing to entice any of this. If anything I could be victim if they find me."

"Victim?" She repeated.

Dairren swallowed hard, "Arl Howe's men . . . they laid siege to the castle . . . it wasn't a fire . . . I overheard his men . . . he offered his men rewards for the head of any Cousland."

The woman covered her mouth in shock, and shook her head in denial.

"I was supposed to be in the castle, but I wasn't. I got away," he wasn't certain why he felt compelled to tell her all this. "I ran . . . came back to Highever. I need to get to my father and tell him what happened, but I had no traveling supplies."

She was briefly silent, then slowly took her hand away from her mouth, "Who . . . Who is your father?"

"Bann Loren," he answered. "My mother was in the castle when they-" He felt a lump form in his throat. "I need to get back to our estate and tell him."

"W . . . will you also tell Bann Devin or Captain Fintan?" She asked, sounding hesitant.

"No," the word came immediately out of his mouth. "No, I can't. Don't you see that if I did, other people . . . they'll do the same thing to them as they just did to Ser Denny there. More people will be at risk getting hurt, they may even raze Highever. Arl Howe's soldiers are everywhere right now."

A small part in him cried in anger at the self delusion. He was afraid. Deathly afraid that the person that would be hurt would be him. Instead of going to the Bann of Highever or to the Guard Captain like he easily could, he was going to flee to the safety of his father's estate.

_Better a living coward than a dead fool_, he told himself.

The woman put her fingertips on her mouth, then looked over at the window where the curtain was still open a very small crack. Going over, she smoothed it closed.

"Then I suppose you should wait here," she said softly as if fearing to be heard by the soldiers still outside. "At least until people are allowed in the streets again."

Inclining his head to her, he breathed a very small sigh of relief, "Thank you."

* * *

"Should we run?"

Oralyn seemed only partially aware that something was happening. Her mind couldn't get rid of the images and all-too-recent memories of the events at Cousland Castle. The people with her were panicking and it could only mean that more death was coming. As if she were watching a stage play from an oblique angle, her gaze went to the same area that the performers in front of her looked.

"It has to be Howe's men, what else could it be?"

In the dim gray light of a clouded dawn, the forest looked dank and bleak. A low laying, blurred silhouette started to form in the distance. It was no form of man, but of beast. As the thing came into focus, Oralyn slowly stood up. Her mind was disbelieving what her eyes were seeing. The creature was one she knew.

The others around her were starting to back away, ready to flee. She was the only one to move forward.

"Angus?"

The creature's head came up, its ears perked, and then it galloped towards them. Closer to the clearing the Mabari Warhound took a final bound and ran around Oralyn, barking with excitement.

"It is Angus!" Socha said, laughing in both relief and joy.

Oralyn opened her arms and Angus settled down enough for her to get her arms about his neck. Hugging him fiercely, she briefly buried her face in his fur.

"Then you worried us for nothing, Socha," another said.

"But I could have sworn it was a man I saw," Socha insisted, then added in an unsure tone. "Maybe he was up on his hind legs?"

"Or . . . or maybe it's someone who came with Angus," someone breathed it out as if afraid to say it for fear of it not being true.

Oralyn's head snapped up at that. If Angus was here then . . .

Letting Angus go she stood fully and looked into the forests, her eyes wide, hoping to see a familiar figure. Another shape did appear, this time it was certainly a man. The rustle of leaves on the ground being moved and walked upon were fully audible. Getting closer, she saw that he was familiar, but not who she had hoped and expected.

"Ser Gilmore!" Socha blurted as he got nearer to the clearing. The others chimed in, sounding relieved. Finally they had someone with them that could possibly get them through things.

Oralyn felt guilty and looked at the ground. She was glad that Ser Gilmore was alive and now with them, but in her heart she had hoped that it would have been the mabari's true master coming through those trees.

"Socha, Cath, Adney," he said, his voice sounding faint. "Oralyn . . . thank the Maker you got out."

One of them gave a slight gasp, "Ser Gilmore, you're hurt!"

She looked up just in time to see him slump against a nearby tree and utter, "Just a little."

Abruptly, everything came into focus. Dried blood caked the side of his face and the area around his right eye was fully swollen shut. Gilmore held his hand oddly in his lap. He had taken the glove off or perhaps it had gone missing, but the hand looked bruised. Instantly, she was kneeling by his side looking over his wounds.

"Did anyone bring any bandages?" She questioned, scanning the others around.

Everyone regarded one another in askance and also seemed to be staring at her with a little uncertainty.

"I don't think anyone managed to grab any," Adney finally answered.

"We need strips of cloth of some sort and one of us needs to find water to wash the wound with," she stated.

"Here, I have a water skin."

"I . . . I picked up my apron. We can use that for cloth."

"Why'd you take your apron? Did you think we were going to get to cleaning out here?"

"I panicked!"

Giving the smallest of grateful smiles, the others gathered about to assist with her wishes.

* * *

The woman that Dairren found himself with came to the main room again, her long hair now combed and put into a simple braid down her back. She was also dressed for the day's dealings, the front of the simple commoner's dress bulging at her belly.

"Let me get some tea started," she said after passing a brief and slightly nervous glance at him. "It might help sooth both our nerves."

Standing he shook his head, "N-no, please, you don't have to go through the trouble. I've inconvenienced you quite enough."

Setting those green eyes on him again, she smoothed a hand over her stomach, then gave a light smile, "I mean no offense, but it will be more for myself then for you, milord."

"Then at least let me assist you with making it," he ran a hand through his hair, feeling the need to do something. "I feel rather quite terrible having put you through this. Somewhat ill over it, actually. A woman in your condition . . . It isn't right. This can't be good for you or your expected one."

Some of that nervousness and uncertainty left her eyes and she gave a far more genuine smile, "Well, it has gotten a little more difficult to reach for things lately. The Maker saw fit not to give women longer arms during times like these. Follow me, then, mi-." Her head tilted slightly as she interrupted herself. "I'm sorry, but in all this chaos . . . what _is_your name, milord?"

Jumping as if slapped, Dairren gave a little shake of his head, "I am horribly sorry. Bit rude of me. I am Dairren Loren, son of Bann Eadwig Loren, milady." He bowed to her, perhaps a bit lower then needed considering their respective stations. "And you are?"

She smiled, bowing as much as her child laden body would allow, "Helena."

"A pleasure to meet you, Helena," he gave a rueful smile. "Considering the circumstances, that is."

* * *

"This is the best we can do for you right now, Ser Gilmore," Oralyn spoke as she tucked in the last strip of cloth about his head.

"It is more than I would have managed on my own. Thank you," he rested his back on the tree.

They managed to wash off most of the blood that had coursed down his face and neck. She was hesitant to clear off too much of the blood over the actual wound as the blood had already hardened. It was likely the only thing preventing the gash across his eye from seeping more blood. It raised the danger of the injury becoming infected, but they had nothing to stitch up the wound with. For now they had to settle for keeping the wraps bound over the eye and hope they came across some place or someone that could see to it properly.

"How did you all manage to get out?" Gilmore asked.

"Through the servant's entrance in the kitchen," Socha was the one to answer. "That elven Warden, Kallian. She helped us get out."

"Kallian did," Gilmore looked somewhat relieved. "What happened to her? Is she not with you?"

"After she got us out she . . ." Oralyn took a breath to get the words out. "She and the Grey Warden Duncan both went back into the castle."

"Wait," Ser Gilmore sat up a little, looking at her with his good eye. "You say you saw Duncan?"

She nodded, "Yes. He apparently was checking the path into the woods to make sure it was clear of ... of A-arl Howe's men. He said it was clear and that we should flee, but th-they went back. Both of them, Kallian and the Warden went back into the castle."

His eye narrowed in thought, "If that's true . . . the last I saw of Duncan, he had the Teyrn with him. Did you see any sign of the Teyrn or the Teyrna or Lord Aedan?"

Oralyn shook her head, "No, just the Wardens . . ." Then her eyes widened a bit, "If he was with the Teyrn . . . then he likely went back to help get him out! The Teyrn could still be alive!"

The others muttered in hopeful tones around them, but Ser Gilmore was still in thought. Angus sat nearby with one ear perked, and Gilmore looked at him in contemplation.

"It could be," he began, "that he also went back for the Teyrna and Aedan. I saw them both in the main hall . . . and Angus _wasn't_ with them at the time. I guess you got separated from him, didn't you, boy?"

Angus huffed a bark, then whined, confirming Gilmore's guess. She looked at the Warhound as Ser Gilmore pet his head. When Oralyn knew that Angus wasn't by his master's side, the thought that Aedan Cousland was dead already began to filter into her heart. Tending to Ser Gilmore's wounds let her ignore the notion, but with the subject being at hand she couldn't ignore the cold chill that had crept down her spine. She concentrated on Ser Gilmore's words and the hope that they offered.

"I told them to head for the servants entrance with the hope they would join the Teyrn there," he looked at Oralyn again. "If all of this is so then there is a good chance that the Wardens got out with their Graces and Lord Aedan. It could very well be that they are also alive and out in these same woods fleeing as we are."

Adney sniffled out a sob, "Praise the Maker if it's so."

"Should we try to find them?" Socha asked.

Everyone jumped when Angus stood up suddenly and began to bark in a way that sounded almost conversational. Then just as suddenly he turned and ran into the forest back in the direction that he and Ser Gilmore had come from. Gilmore tried to slide up to his feet to stop him, but by the time he even uttered a sound the warhound was gone from sight. Oralyn was to her feet and took a few steps in the same direction.

"Y . . . you don't think he understood us, do you? Is he . . ." her voice faltered a little. "Is Angus going to try and find Lord Aedan out there?"

Ser Gilmore had slid back down to the ground in almost a defeated fashion, "It's very likely that's exactly what he's going to do."

"Maybe we should follow him?" one of the servant's asked.

Ser Gilmore was already shaking his head and Oralyn was inclined to agree with him.

"No," he said softly. "That will only put us in further danger should we head closer to the castle. We need to keep moving away. Much as my sworn oath begs me to try and find them, one somewhat battered knight isn't going to provide much protection for them. Besides, it looked like Angus got it into his head to do something. None of us, even at best of health, will be able to keep up with him."

Kneeling by Ser Gilmore's side again, she tentatively put a hand on his arm, "Then that means we have to try and get to some sort of safety."

"But where?" Cath spoke up this time. "I mean . . . who can we trust? After Arl Howe . . . "

She saw Ser Gilmore's eye harden at that and he stared down at his good hand.

"That's true," Adney added. "We don't know who might of been in Arl Howe's pocket!"

"Wait, Ser Gilmore, what about your family?" Socha stepped forward. "Your father is a cousin of some sort of the Teyrna, isn't he?"

The Highever knight looked up and the faintest of smiles curled his lips, "Several times removed, but yes my father is related. Getting to Hunter's Fell isn't an option, though. It's a week and a halfs travel at least and I can tell at a glance that we don't have even nearly enough supplies for that. Unless someone can say they have a purse full of coin we can use to purchase supplies along the way?" A general shaking of heads all around was his answer and he nodded again, "As expected."

"I suppose we could simply keep going," Oralyn stated, wrapping the shawl about her shoulders tighter. "The Warden Duncan told us we should stay away from the roads and get as far as we possibly can."

"Or . . . " Gilmore's eye narrowed slightly as a thought struck him, "If I'm not mistaken . . . Oralyn, do you remember the old master-at-arms? The one that retired shortly after I was knighted?"

She tilted her head slightly, "You mean . . . Ser Jarva?"

"Yes," he sat up, bracing himself with his good hand. "If I'm not mistaken his family's farmstead isn't that far from here. A day and a half travel, perhaps only a little more if we steer clear the roads. He's a Cousland man to the core. I'm certain we can get help from him. Food and shelter at the very least."

Oralyn nodded slowly, feeling more and more hope, "Then, if you're able Ser Gilmore, we should leave right away."

"I believe," Ser Gilmore started to rise and Socha came over to assist him to his feet, "that I am able."

She smiled and nodded, though she was worried about the paleness of his skin. Clapping her hands twice she looked at the others.

"Everyone gather your things and no dawdling."

* * *

"It will be very likely that no one will open their shops today."

Dairren glowered out through the small crack in the curtains. Ser Denny and the men from Amaranthine were long gone and the streets have been deathly quiet for hours. A light drizzle had started that misted the streets, making it difficult to see very far. Second Bell should have sounded by now, yet there hadn't even been the faintest of signs of it happening.

He nodded slowly at Helena's words and closed the curtain fully again, "It may even be a couple of days or more. The town will mourn and pay their respects . . . provided Arl Howe's men allow for much of it. Bann Devin may have something to say to counter that, but . . . "

Letting his words hang, he shook his head slightly.

"I have a thought, milord, if I may?"

For some reason Helena addressing him so formally made him feel guilty about the situation and not worthy of being spoken to in such a respectable manner. The intruder in her home was he and he'd imposed on her enough as it was. He inclined his head to her to continue.

"I'm certain they'll let people hear more news and come out of their homes before the afternoon is through. Once they do, that should be your chance to leave Highever," when Dairren opened his mouth to mention about supplies, Helena raised her hand to motion that she wasn't finished. "I have some dry food and bread that should be good for travel that you can have. I also have my husband's old leather practice armor that I can give you."

Dairren's eyes widened a bit, "No, milady, please, I couldn't possibly-"

"It's alright," she smiled reassuringly. "My husband was intending to sell the armor as he hardly used it anymore. He certainly will not miss it. I am also not so wanting that giving you food will render me starving. Oh! I think there is also a flask I can give you. It isn't a large one so you will need to refill it on the way, but it should suffice for a waterskin."

Mouth agape for some moments, he could only stare in slight wonderment at her. Here he was a stranger, barging into her home, and possibly putting her in danger by just being there. Yet she was more than willing to help him and give him things likely earned from she and her husband's own sweat and toil. Food out from the mouth of she and her unborn child. It was hurting to know that he was going to have to take her up on her offer as he did need to leave as soon as possible.

His mouth moved, but he was uncertain as to what to say at first. Then he gave a small sigh of relief.

"You are far . . . far too kind, Lady Helena," he smiled in return at her. "Your husband is quite the lucky man to have a woman as kind and pretty as yourself."

Giggling mildly, she shook her head, "Please, milord. I am just Helena."

"Of course," Dairren twisted a soft grin. "I am curious, though. It is obvious that your husband is not here. I take it he is away. Was he one of the soldiers sent to Ostagar?"

At the question she seemed to swell up with some pride, "He is in Ostagar right now, but not as a regular soldier. My husband, Jory . . . he was recruited several months ago by the Grey Wardens."

His eyebrows raised, "My, that is an honor. Your husband must be very skilled indeed to warrant the Warden's attention."

"He was a knight trained in Redcliff and he moved here to marry me," she blushed as she spoke and her eyes carried a warm glow. "He won the tournament held in the Grey Warden Commander's honor when he visited here last. Apparently he was impressed by Jory's skills and recruited him that same day."

Nodding slightly, Dairren didn't let the sudden worry color his face. The Warden Commander, Duncan, had been in Cousland Castle when it was attacked and was now likely just as dead as everyone else. He didn't have the heart to inform Helena that her husband's superior wasn't going to be at Ostagar to guide him or any of the other Grey Wardens in Ferelden. Perhaps there was some hope in that. The Wardens would eventually come looking for their lost leader and eventually track him to Highever. When they do he could easily inform them of what had transpired and then the Grey Wardens along with his father could bring Arl Howe to justice. All Dairren would have to do is inform the right people of what transpired.

"Of course, Jory was horribly worried about having to leave me," Helena continued, gently rubbing a hand over her belly. "He at first didn't want to with a baby on the way, but I told him he shouldn't pass up such an honor. I have a good amount of family here in Highever and the neighbors have been helping me get by without Jory here. They're more than happy to help the wife of a Grey Warden."

"Then it sets my heart at ease to know you aren't alone here," he spoke softly, truly feeling relieved. "I have the sense that you will try and refuse this, but when I get back and see you again I will make sure to fully repay your kindness."

"I will say, of course, that you don't have to," she gave a wan smile, "but I hope that the situation here in Highever becomes such that you _can_ return."

He sighed and nodded, his face turning a little grim, "So do I, Helena . . . so do I."

* * *

Though the rain and drizzle slowed them down, Roland and his little band of refugees managed to make decent time. It was mildly difficult at the start as they had jumped at almost every little sound that drifted through the forest and he spent most of the time trying to keep them calm. Oralyn helped with keeping them in line, but it wasn't until he got them to find some long sticks and have them sharpen the ends of them that they walked a little more confidently. They were sad excuses for makeshift spears, but it was better than the single hunter's knife that Roland carried being the only weapon they had. With Angus gone it was now up to just him to protect them all if necessary.

He stayed awake that night to be on watch. Socha had offered to take part of it, but Roland told him it wasn't necessary. He had to remain awake and knew better than to fall asleep with a head injury. The others huddled against one another for warmth under an old oak tree while they slept. Roland kept his mind occupied with which direction to go and how best to divvy up the scant supplies.

By the afternoon of the next day they made it to the farmstead. It was a decent house they had. Two stories and large with a stone foundation. Healthy wisps of smoke drifted up form three chimneys. Ser Jarva said once that his family, though just freeholders, were well off for what they were and owed it all to the Teyrn of Highever.

_The Couslands have never steered us wrong, lad. Even during the Occupation my family remained loyal to them and were repaid in ways greater than any noble title would have given us._

From the treeline he could see vague movements around the house and barns. The cattle within the surrounding corrals moved with the lackadaisical manner that all cows had, tails and ears flicking the water drops off on occasion. Nothing indicated that anything was amiss, but he wasn't going to take that chance. Moving back farther into the trees he joined the others again.

"This looks to be the right place. Ser Jarva's family are cattle herders by trade," he propped himself up on a nearby tree with a hand. "I need one of you to go up there, though, and make sure of several things."

"Just one of us?" Adney asked, sounding confused. "Why not all of us? We're almost to shelter."

Some of the other servants nodded in agreement.

"That wouldn't be wise," he reflexively wiped a hand over the side of his neck. The rain felt nice and cool on his skin, but he felt warm for some reason. "My greatest concern is that Rendon Howe's men might have taken over some of the local farms and estates already. It may not look it, but we cannot be certain if Howe's men are already here or not. I cannot go check looking as I do."

"Then I will go," Oralyn stood. "Ser Jarva will hopefully recognize me provided he's still in control here."

He was about to agree, but then Socha stepped forward.

"No, I'll do it," he looked back and forth between Oralyn and Roland. "I used to bring him a fresh raw egg and some milk every morning for that odd drink he used to make. He'll definitely remember me."

Roland pondered it a second, then nodded, "You have it then, Socha. Keep your eyes and ears open. If you suspect Howe's men have taken this place than come back immediately. If you are pursued then you need to lead them away from us. Do you understand?"

Socha's eyes widened slightly at the mention of leading pursuers away, but then a more determined glint hit his eye and he nodded, "I understand."

"Good man," Roland uttered. "We'll wait here."

He took off, walking towards the farm in a slight crouch. He paused every so often to stop, look, and listen. Roland kept an eye on him until he dissapeared behind the herd of cows. They waited for what felt like hours, but he was certain it had only been fifteen minutes. Then in the distance, Socha appeared again, walking at a decent clip with another much larger man behind him. Roland felt the corner of his lip turn up. He recognized the shaggy red beard drizzled with gray wisps and the nearly bald head of the figure following Socha.

Socha waved his arms at them when he got closer, "Come on out! We're safe! Ser Jarva will take us in!"

He heard the others sigh in relief and give praise to the Maker. Roland motioned for them all to come out of the trees and he waited for the last of them to pass him first. Turning to look, his eyes focused on Ser Jarva who was looking back directly at him over the heads of the servants. Suddenly something snapped loose in Roland. It was like any and all tension he had in his body came undone and his knees gave out on him. His vision became fuzzy and it felt like his face was on fire. Roland wanted to reach up and yank the bandages away from his eye, but his limbs refused to listen to him. Faintly he heard Ser Jarva's booming voice holler his name out.

He wondered if this was it. Now that he knew everyone was safe, he could give up. Maybe this was where he died. He didn't want to. He wasn't done yet. Justice and vengeance still had yet to be seen. Once it did then he could die. This thought remained in his mind even as the ground swiftly rose up to meet him.

"Ser Gilmore!"

It was Oralyn's voice. It was the last thing he heard before darkness took him.


End file.
